Curious, if True

Elizabeth Gaskell

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Curious, if True

Extract from a Letter from Richard Whittingham, Esq.

You were formerly so much amused at my pride in my descent from that sister of Calvin’s, who married a Whittingham,
Dean of Durham, that I doubt if you will be able to enter into the regard for my distinguished relation that has led me
to France, in order to examine registers and archives, which, I thought, might enable me to discover collateral
descendants of the great reformer, with whom I might call cousins. I shall not tell you of my troubles and adventures
in this research; you are not worthy to hear of them; but something so curious befel me one evening last August, that
if I had not been perfectly certain I was wide awake, I might have taken it for a dream.

For the purpose I have named, it was necessary that I should make Tours my head-quarters for a time. I had traced
descendants of the Calvin family out of Normandy into the centre of France; but I found it was necessary to have a kind
of permission from the bishop of the diocese before I could see certain family papers, which had fallen into the
possession of the Church; and, as I had several English friends at Tours, I awaited the answer to my request to
Monseigneur de — — at that town. I was ready to accept any invitation; but I received very few; and was sometimes a
little at a loss what to do with my evenings. The table d’hôte was at five o’clock; I did not wish to go to
the expense of a private sitting-room, disliked the dinnery atmosphere of the salle à manger, could not play
either at pool or billiards, and the aspect of my fellow guests was unprepossessing enough to make me unwilling to
enter into any tête-à-tête gamblings with them. So I usually rose from table early, and tried to make the most
of the remaining light of the August evenings in walking briskly off to explore the surrounding country; the middle of
the day was too hot for this purpose, and better employed in lounging on a bench in the Boulevards, lazily listening to
the distant band, and noticing with equal laziness the faces and figures of the women who passed by.

One Thursday evening, the 18th of August it was, I think, I had gone further than usual in my walk, and I found that
it was later than I had imagined when I paused to turn back. I fancied I could make a round; I had enough notion of the
direction in which I was, to see that by turning up a narrow straight lane to my left I should shorten my way back to
Tours. And so I believe I should have done, could I have found an outlet at the right place, but field-paths are almost
unknown in that part of France, and my lane, stiff and straight as any street, and marked into terribly vanishing
perspective by the regular row of poplars on each side, seemed interminable. Of course night came on, and I was in
darkness. In England I might have had a chance of seeing a light in some cottage only a field or two off, and asking my
way from the inhabitants; but here I could see no such welcome sight; indeed, I believe French peasants go to bed with
the summer daylight, so if there were any habitations in the neighbourhood I never saw them. At last — I believe I must
have walked two hours in the darkness — I saw the dusky outline of a wood on one side of the weariful lane, and,
impatiently careless of all forest laws and penalties for trespassers, I made my way to it, thinking that if the worst
came to the worst, I could find some covert — some shelter where I could lie down and rest, until the morning light
gave me a chance of finding my way back to Tours. But the plantation, on the outskirts of what appeared to me a dense
wood, was of young trees, too closely planted to be more than slender stems growing up to a good height, with scanty
foliage on their summits. On I went towards the thicker forest, and once there I slackened my pace, and began to look
about me for a good lair. I was as dainty as Lochiel’s grandchild, who made his grandsire indignant at the luxury of
his pillow of snow: this brake was too full of brambles, that felt damp with dew; there was no hurry, since I had given
up all hope of passing the night between four walls; and I went leisurely groping about, and trusting that there were
no wolves to be poked up out of their summer drowsiness by my stick, when all at once I saw a château before me, not a
quarter of a mile off, at the end of what seemed to be an ancient avenue (now overgrown and irregular), which I
happened to be crossing, when I looked to my right, and saw the welcome sight. Large, stately, and dark was its outline
against the dusky night-sky; there were pepper-boxes and tourelles and what-not fantastically going up into the dim
starlight. And more to the purpose still, though I could not see the details of the building that I was now facing, it
was plain enough that there were lights in many windows, as if some great entertainment was going on.

“They are hospitable people, at any rate,” thought I. “Perhaps they will give me a bed. I don’t suppose French
propriétaires have traps and horses quite as plentiful as English gentlemen; but they are evidently having a large
party, and some of their guests may be from Tours, and will give me a cast back to the Lion d’Or. I am not proud, and I
am dog-tired. I am not above hanging on behind, if need be.”

So, putting a little briskness and spirit into my walk, I went up to the door, which was standing open, most
hospitably, and showing a large lighted hall, all hung round with spoils of the chase, armour, &c., the details of
which I had not time to notice, for the instant I stood on the threshold a huge porter appeared, in a strange,
old-fashioned dress, a kind of livery which well befitted the general appearance of the house. He asked me, in French
(so curiously pronounced that I thought I had hit upon a new kind of patois), my name, and whence I came. I
thought he would not be much the wiser, still it was but civil to give it before I made my request for assistance; so,
in reply, I said —

“My name is Whittingham — Richard Whittingham, an English gentleman, staying at —— .”
To my infinite surprise, a light of pleased intelligence came over the giant’s face; he made me a low bow, and said
(still in the same curious dialect) that I was welcome, that I was long expected.

“Long expected!” What could the fellow mean? Had I stumbled on a nest of relations by John Calvin’s side, who had
heard of my genealogical inquiries, and were gratified and interested by them? But I was too much pleased to be under
shelter for the night to think it necessary to account for my agreeable reception before I enjoyed it. Just as he was
opening the great heavy battants of the door that led from the hall to the interior, he turned round and
said —

“Apparently Monsieur le Géanquilleur is not come with you.”

“No! I am all alone; I have lost my way,"— and I was going on with my explanation, when he, as if quite indifferent
to it, led the way up a great stone staircase, as wide as many rooms, and having on each landing-place massive iron
wickets, in a heavy framework; these the porter unlocked with the solemn slowness of age. Indeed, a strange, mysterious
awe of the centuries that had passed away since this château was built, came over me as I waited for the turning of the
ponderous keys in the ancient locks. I could almost have fancied that I heard a mighty rushing murmur (like the
ceaseless sound of a distant sea, ebbing and flowing for ever and for ever), coming forth from the great vacant
galleries that opened out on each side of the broad staircase, and were to be dimly perceived in the darkness above us.
It was as if the voices of generations of men yet echoed and eddied in the silent air. It was strange, too, that my
friend the porter going before me, ponderously infirm, with his feeble old hands striving in vain to keep the tall
flambeau he held steadily before him — strange, I say, that he was the only domestic I saw in the vast halls and
passages, or met with on the grand staircase. At length we stood before the gilded doors that led into the saloon where
the family — or it might be the company, so great was the buzz of voices — was assembled. I would have remonstrated
when I found he was going to introduce me, dusty and travel-smeared, in a morning costume that was not even my best,
into this grand salon, with nobody knew how many ladies and gentlemen assembled; but the obstinate old man was
evidently bent upon taking me straight to his master, and paid no heed to my words.

The doors flew open, and I was ushered into a saloon curiously full of pale light, which did not culminate on any
spot, nor proceed from any centre, nor flicker with any motion of the air, but filled every nook and corner, making all
things deliciously distinct; different from our light of gas or candle, as is the difference between a clear southern
atmosphere and that of our misty England.

At the first moment, my arrival excited no attention, the apartment was so full of people, all intent on their own
conversation. But my friend the porter went up to a handsome lady of middle age, richly attired in that antique manner
which fashion has brought round again of late years, and, waiting first in an attitude of deep respect till her
attention fell upon him, told her my name and something about me, as far as I could guess from the gestures of the one
and the sudden glance of the eye of the other.

She immediately came towards me with the most friendly actions of greeting, even before she had advanced near enough
to speak. Then — and was it not strange? — her words and accent were that of the commonest peasant of the country. Yet
she herself looked high-bred, and would have been dignified had she been a shade less restless, had her countenance
worn a little less lively and inquisitive expression. I had been poking a good deal about the old parts of Tours, and
had had to understand the dialect of the people who dwelt in the Marché au Vendredi and similar places, or I really
should not have understood my handsome hostess, as she offered to present me to her husband, a henpecked, gentlemanly
man, who was more quaintly attired than she in the very extreme of that style of dress. I thought to myself that in
France, as in England, it is the provincials who carry fashion to such an excess as to become ridiculous.

However, he spoke (still in the patois) of his pleasure in making my acquaintance, and led me to a strange
uneasy easy-chair, much of a piece with the rest of the furniture, which might have taken its place without any
anachronism by the side of that in the Hôtel Cluny. Then again began the clatter of French voices, which my arrival had
for an instant interrupted, and I had leisure to look about me. Opposite to me sat a very sweet-looking lady, who must
have been a great beauty in her youth, I should think, and would be charming in old age, from the sweetness of her
countenance. She was, however, extremely fat, and on seeing her feet laid up before her on a cushion, I at once
perceived that they were so swollen as to render her incapable of walking, which probably brought on her excessive
embonpoint. Her hands were plump and small, but rather coarse-grained in texture, not quite so clean as they
might have been, and altogether not so aristocratic-looking as the charming face. Her dress was of superb black velvet,
ermine-trimmed, with diamonds thrown all abroad over it.

Not far from her stood the least little man I had ever seen; of such admirable proportions no one could call him a
dwarf, because with that word we usually associate something of deformity; but yet with an elfin look of shrewd, hard,
worldly wisdom in his face that marred the impression which his delicate regular little features would otherwise have
conveyed. Indeed, I do not think he was quite of equal rank with the rest of the company, for his dress was
inappropriate to the occasion (and he apparently was an invited, while I was an involuntary guest); and one or two of
his gestures and actions were more like the tricks of an uneducated rustic than anything else. To explain what I mean:
his boots had evidently seen much service, and had been re-topped, re-heeled, re-soled to the extent of cobbler’s
powers. Why should he have come in them if they were not his best — his only pair? And what can be more ungenteel than
poverty? Then again he had an uneasy trick of putting his hand up to his throat, as if he expected to find something
the matter with it; and he had the awkward habit — which I do not think he could have copied from Dr. Johnson, because
most probably he had never heard of him — of trying always to retrace his steps on the exact boards on which he had
trodden to arrive at any particular part of the room. Besides, to settle the question, I once heard him addressed as
Monsieur Poucet, without any aristocratic “de” for a prefix; and nearly every one else in the room was a marquis, at
any rate.

I say, “nearly every one;” for some strange people had the entrée; unless, indeed, they were, like me, benighted.
One of the guests I should have taken for a servant, but for the extraordinary influence he seemed to have over the man
I took for his master, and who never did anything without, apparently, being urged thereto by this follower. The
master, magnificently dressed, but ill at ease in his clothes, as if they had been made for some one else, was a
weak-looking, handsome man, continually sauntering about, and I almost guessed an object of suspicion to some of the
gentlemen present, which, perhaps, drove him on the companionship of his follower, who was dressed something in the
style of an ambassador’s chasseur; yet it was not a chasseur’s dress after all; it was something more thoroughly
old-world; boots half way up his ridiculously small legs, which clattered as he walked along, as if they were too large
for his little feet; and a great quantity of grey fur, as trimming to coat, court-mantle, boots, cap — everything. You
know the way in which certain countenances remind you perpetually of some animal, be it bird or beast! Well, this
chasseur (as I will call him for want of a better name) was exceedingly like the great Tom-cat that you have seen so
often in my chambers, and laughed at almost as often for his uncanny gravity of demeanour. Grey whiskers has my Tom —
grey whiskers had the chasseur: grey hair overshadows the upper lip of my Tom — grey mustachios hid that of the
chasseur. The pupils of Tom’s eyes dilate and contract as I had thought cats’ pupils only could do, until I saw those
of the chasseur. To be sure, canny as Tom is, the chasseur had the advantage in the more intelligent expression. He
seemed to have obtained most complete sway over his master or patron, whose looks he watched, and whose steps he
followed, with a kind of distrustful interest that puzzled me greatly.

There were several other groups in the more distant part of the saloon, all of the stately old school, all grand and
noble, I conjectured from their bearing. They seemed perfectly well acquainted with each other, as if they were in the
habit of meeting. But I was interrupted in my observations by the tiny little gentleman on the opposite side of the
room coming across to take a place beside me. It is no difficult matter to a Frenchman to slide into conversation, and
so gracefully did my pigmy friend keep up the character of the nation, that we were almost confidential before ten
minutes had elapsed.

Now I was quite aware that the welcome which all had extended to me, from the porter up to the vivacious lady and
meek lord of the castle, was intended for some other person. But it required either a degree of moral courage, of which
I cannot boast, or the self-reliance and conversational powers of a bolder and cleverer man than I, to undeceive people
who had fallen into so fortunate a mistake for me. Yet the little man by my side insinuated himself so much into my
confidence, that I had half a mind to tell him of my exact situation, and to turn him into a friend and an ally.

“Madame is perceptibly growing older,” said he, in the midst of my perplexity, glancing at our hostess.

“Madame is still a very fine woman,” replied I.

“Now, is it not strange,” continued he, lowering his voice, “how women almost invariably praise the absent, or
departed, as if they were angels of light, while as for the present, or the living”— here he shrugged up his little
shoulders, and made an expressive pause. “Would you believe it! Madame is always praising her late husband to
monsieur’s face; till, in fact, we guests are quite perplexed how to look: for, you know, the late M. de Retz’s
character was quite notorious — everybody has heard of him.” All the world of Touraine, thought I, but I made an
assenting noise.

At this instant, monsieur our host came up to me, and with a civil look of tender interest (such as some people put
on when they inquire after your mother, about whom they do not care one straw), asked if I had heard lately how my cat
was? “How my cat was!” What could the man mean? My cat! Could he mean the tailless Tom, born in the Isle of Man, and
now supposed to be keeping guard against the incursions of rats and mice into my chambers in London? Tom is, as you
know, on pretty good terms with some of my friends, using their legs for rubbing-posts without scruple, and highly
esteemed by them for his gravity of demeanour, and wise manner of winking his eyes. But could his fame have reached
across the Channel? However, an answer must be returned to the inquiry, as monsieur’s face was bent down to mine with a
look of polite anxiety; so I, in my turn, assumed an expression of gratitude, and assured him that, to the best of my
belief, my cat was in remarkably good health.

“And the climate agrees with her?”

“Perfectly,” said I, in a maze of wonder at this deep solicitude in a tailless cat who had lost one foot and half an
ear in some cruel trap. My host smiled a sweet smile, and, addressing a few words to my little neighbour, passed
on.

“How wearisome those aristocrats are!” quoth my neighbour, with a slight sneer. “Monsieur’s conversation rarely
extends to more than two sentences to any one. By that time his faculties are exhausted, and he needs the refreshment
of silence. You and I, monsieur, are, at any rate, indebted to our own wits for our rise in the world!”

Here again I was bewildered! As you know, I am rather proud of my descent from families which, if not noble
themselves, are allied to nobility — and as to my “rise in the world”— if I had risen, it would have been rather for
balloon-like qualities than for mother-wit, to being unencumbered with heavy ballast either in my head or my pockets.
However, it was my cue to agree: so I smiled again.

“For my part,” said he, “if a man does not stick at trifles, if he knows how to judiciously add to, or withhold
facts, and is not sentimental in his parade of humanity, he is sure to do well; sure to affix a de or
von to his name, and end his days in comfort. There is an example of what I am saying”— and he glanced
furtively at the weak-looking master of the sharp, intelligent servant, whom I have called the chasseur.

“Monsieur le Marquis would never have been anything but a miller’s son, if it had not been for the talents of his
servant. Of course you know his antecedents?”

I was going to make some remarks on the changes in the order of the peerage since the days of Louis XVI. — going, in
fact, to be very sensible and historical — when there was a slight commotion among the people at the other end of the
room. Lacqueys in quaint liveries must have come in from behind the tapestry, I suppose (for I never saw them enter,
though I sate right opposite to the doors), and were handing about the slight beverages and slighter viands which are
considered sufficient refreshments, but which looked rather meagre to my hungry appetite. These footmen were standing
solemnly opposite to a lady — beautiful, splendid as the dawn, but — sound asleep in a magnificent settee. A gentleman
who showed so much irritation at her ill-timed slumbers, that I think he must have been her husband, was trying to
awaken her with actions not far removed from shakings. All in vain; she was quite unconscious of his annoyance, or the
smiles of the company, or the automatic solemnity of the waiting footman, or the perplexed anxiety of monsieur and
madame.

My little friend sat down with a sneer, as if his curiosity was quenched in contempt.

“Moralists would make an infinity of wise remarks on that scene,” said he. “In the first place, note the ridiculous
position into which their superstitious reverence for rank and title puts all these people. Because monsieur is a
reigning prince over some minute principality, the exact situation of which no one has as yet discovered, no one must
venture to take their glass of eau sucré till Madame la Princesse awakens; and, judging from past experience, those
poor lacqueys may have to stand for a century before that happens. Next — always speaking as a moralist, you will
observe — note how difficult it is to break off bad habits acquired in youth!”

Just then the prince succeeded, by what means I did not see, in awaking the beautiful sleeper. But at first she did
not remember where she was, and looking up at her husband with loving eyes, she smiled and said:

“Is it you, my prince?”

But he was too conscious of the suppressed amusement of the spectators and his own consequent annoyance, to be
reciprocally tender, and turned away with some little French expression, best rendered into English by “Pooh, pooh, my
dear!”

After I had had a glass of delicious wine of some unknown quality, my courage was in rather better plight than
before, and I told my cynical little neighbour — whom I must say I was beginning to dislike — that I had lost my way in
the wood, and had arrived at the château quite by mistake.

He seemed mightily amused at my story; said that the same thing had happened to himself more than once; and told me
that I had better luck than he had on one of these occasions, when, from his account, he must have been in considerable
danger of his life. He ended his story by making me admire his boots, which he said he still wore, patched though they
were, and all their excellent quality lost by patching, because they were of such a first-rate make for long pedestrian
excursions. “Though, indeed,” he wound up by saying, “the new fashion of railroads would seem to supersede the
necessity for this description of boots.”

When I consulted him as to whether I ought to make myself known to my host and hostess as a benighted traveller,
instead of the guest whom they had taken me for, he exclaimed, “By no means! I hate such squeamish morality.” And he
seemed much offended by my innocent question, as if it seemed by implication to condemn something in himself. He was
offended and silent; and just at this moment I caught the sweet, attractive eyes of the lady opposite — that lady whom
I named at first as being no longer in the bloom of youth, but as being somewhat infirm about the feet, which were
supported on a raised cushion before her. Her looks seemed to say, “Come here, and let us have some conversation
together;” and, with a bow of silent excuse to my little companion, I went across to the lame old lady. She
acknowledged my coming with the prettiest gesture of thanks possible; and, half apologetically, said, “It is a little
dull to be unable to move about on such evenings as this; but it is a just punishment to me for my early vanities. My
poor feet, that were by nature so small, are now taking their revenge for my cruelty in forcing them into such little
slippers…. Besides, monsieur,” with a pleasant smile, “I thought it was possible you might be weary of the malicious
sayings of your little neighbour. He has not borne the best character in his youth, and such men are sure to be cynical
in their old age.”

“Who is he?” asked I, with English abruptness.

“His name is Poucet, and his father was, I believe, a wood-cutter, or charcoal burner, or something of the sort.
They do tell sad stories of connivance at murder, ingratitude, and obtaining money on false pretences — but you will
think me as bad as he if I go on with my slanders. Rather let us admire the lovely lady coming up towards us, with the
roses in her hand — I never see her without roses, they are so closely connected with her past history, as you are
doubtless aware. Ah, beauty!” said my companion to the lady drawing near to us, “it is like you to come to me, now that
I can no longer go to you.” Then turning to me, and gracefully drawing me into the conversation, she said, “You must
know that, although we never met until we were both married, we have been almost like sisters ever since. There have
been so many points of resemblance in our circumstances, and I think I may say in our characters. We had each two elder
sisters — mine were but half-sisters, though — who were not so kind to us as they might have been.”

“But have been sorry for it since,” put in the other lady.

“Since we have married princes,” continued the same lady, with an arch smile that had nothing of unkindness in it,
“for we both have married far above our original stations in life; we are both unpunctual in our habits, and, in
consequence of this failing of ours, we have both had to suffer mortification and pain.”

“And both are charming,” said a whisper close behind me. “My lord the marquis, say it — say, ‘And both are
charming.’”

“And both are charming,” was spoken aloud by another voice. I turned, and saw the wily cat-like chasseur, prompting
his master to make civil speeches.

The ladies bowed with that kind of haughty acknowledgment which shows that compliments from such a source are
distasteful. But our trio of conversation was broken up, and I was sorry for it. The marquis looked as if he had been
stirred up to make that one speech, and hoped that he would not be expected to say more; while behind him stood the
chasseur, half impertinent and half servile in his ways and attitudes. The ladies, who were real ladies, seemed to be
sorry for the awkwardness of the marquis, and addressed some trifling questions to him, adapting themselves to the
subjects on which he could have no trouble in answering. The chasseur, meanwhile, was talking to himself in a growling
tone of voice. I had fallen a little into the background at this interruption in a conversation which promised to be so
pleasant, and I could not help hearing his words.

“Really, De Carabas grows more stupid every day. I have a great mind to throw off his boots, and leave him to his
fate. I was intended for a court, and to a court I will go, and make my own fortune as I have made his. The emperor
will appreciate my talents.”

And such are the habits of the French, or such his forgetfulness of good manners in his anger, that he spat right
and left on the parquetted floor.

Just then a very ugly, very pleasant-looking man, came towards the two ladies to whom I had lately been speaking,
leading up to them a delicate, fair woman, dressed all in the softest white, as if she were vouée au blanc. I
do not think there was a bit of colour about her. I thought I heard her making, as she came along, a little noise of
pleasure, not exactly like the singing of a tea-kettle, nor yet like the cooing of a dove, but reminding me of each
sound.

“Madame de Mioumiou was anxious to see you,” said he, addressing the lady with the roses, “so I have brought her
across to give you a pleasure!” What an honest, good face! but oh! how ugly! And yet I liked his ugliness better than
most persons’ beauty. There was a look of pathetic acknowledgment of his ugliness, and a deprecation of your too hasty
judgment, in his countenance that was positively winning. The soft, white lady kept glancing at my neighbour the
chasseur, as if they had had some former acquaintance, which puzzled me very much, as they were of such different rank.
However, their nerves were evidently strung to the same tune, for at a sound behind the tapestry, which was more like
the scuttering of rats and mice than anything else, both Madame de Mioumiou and the chasseur started with the most
eager look of anxiety on their countenances, and by their restless movements — madame’s panting, and the fiery dilation
of his eyes — one might see that commonplace sounds affected them both in a manner very different to the rest of the
company. The ugly husband of the lovely lady with the roses now addressed himself to me.

“We are much disappointed,” he said, “in finding that monsieur is not accompanied by his countryman — le grand Jean
d’Angleterre; I cannot pronounce his name rightly”— and he looked at me to help him out.

“Le grand Jean d’Angleterre!” now who was le grand Jean d’Angleterre? John Bull? John Russell? John Bright?

I was as wise as ever. And yet the name struck me as familiar, but slightly disguised. I repeated it to myself. It
was mighty like John the Giant-killer, only his friends always call that worthy “Jack.” I said the name aloud.

“Ah, that is it!” said he. “But why has he not accompanied you to our little reunion to-night?”

I had been rather puzzled once or twice before, but this serious question added considerably to my perplexity. Jack
the Giant-killer had once, it is true, been rather an intimate friend of mine, as far as (printer’s ) ink and paper can
keep up a friendship, but I had not heard his name mentioned for years; and for aught I knew he lay enchanted with King
Arthur’s knights, who lie entranced until the blast of the trumpets of four mighty kings shall call them to help at
England’s need. But the question had been asked in serious earnest by that gentleman, whom I more wished to think well
of me than I did any other person in the room. So I answered respectfully that it was long since I had heard anything
of my countryman; but that I was sure it would have given him as much pleasure as it was doing myself to have been
present at such an agreeable gathering of friends. He bowed, and then the lame lady took up the word.

“To-night is the night when, of all the year, this great old forest surrounding the castle is said to be haunted by
the phantom of a little peasant girl who once lived hereabouts; the tradition is that she was devoured by a wolf. In
former days I have seen her on this night out of yonder window at the end of the gallery. Will you, ma belle, take
monsieur to see the view outside by the moonlight (you may possibly see the phantom-child); and leave me to a little
tête-à-tête with your husband?”

With a gentle movement the lady with the roses complied with the other’s request, and we went to a great window,
looking down on the forest, in which I had lost my way. The tops of the far-spreading and leafy trees lay motionless
beneath us in that pale, wan light, which shows objects almost as distinct in form, though not in colour, as by day. We
looked down on the countless avenues, which seemed to converge from all quarters to the great old castle; and suddenly
across one, quite near to us, there passed the figure of a little girl, with the “capuchon” on, that takes the place of
a peasant girl’s bonnet in France. She had a basket on one arm, and by her, on the side to which her head was turned,
there went a wolf. I could almost have said it was licking her hand, as if in penitent love, if either penitence or
love had ever been a quality of wolves — but though not of living, perhaps it may be of phantom wolves.

“There, we have seen her!” exclaimed my beautiful companion. “Though so long dead, her simple story of household
goodness and trustful simplicity still lingers in the hearts of all who have ever heard of her; and the country-people
about here say that seeing that phantom-child on this anniversary brings good luck for the year. Let us hope that we
shall share in the traditionary good fortune. Ah! here is Madame de Retz — she retains the name of her first husband,
you know, as he was of higher rank than the present.” We were joined by our hostess.

“If monsieur is fond of the beauties of nature and art,” said she, perceiving that I had been looking at the view
from the great window, “he will perhaps take pleasure in seeing the picture.” Here she sighed, with a little
affectation of grief. “You know the picture I allude to,” addressing my companion, who bowed assent, and smiled a
little maliciously, as I followed the lead of madame.

I went after her to the other end of the saloon, noting by the way with what keen curiosity she caught up what was
passing either in word or action on each side of her. When we stood opposite to the end wall, I perceived a full-length
picture of a handsome, peculiar-looking man, with — in spite of his good looks — a very fierce and scowling expression.
My hostess clasped her hands together as her arms hung down in front, and sighed once more. Then, half in soliloquy,
she said —

“He was the love of my youth; his stern yet manly character first touched this heart of mine. When — when shall I
cease to deplore his loss!”

Not being acquainted with her enough to answer this question (if, indeed, it were not sufficiently answered by the
fact of her second marriage), I felt awkward; and, by way of saying something, I remarked —

“The countenance strikes me as resembling something I have seen before — in an engraving from an historical picture,
I think; only, it is there the principal figure in a group: he is holding a lady by her hair, and threatening her with
his scimitar, while two cavaliers are rushing up the stairs, apparently only just in time to save her life.”

“Alas, alas!” said she, “you too accurately describe a miserable passage in my life, which has often been
represented in a false light. The best of husbands”— here she sobbed, and became slightly inarticulate with her grief
—“will sometimes be displeased. I was young and curious, he was justly angry with my disobedience — my brothers were
too hasty — the consequence is, I became a widow!”

After due respect for her tears, I ventured to suggest some commonplace consolation. She turned round sharply:—

“No, monsieur: my only comfort is that I have never forgiven the brothers who interfered so cruelly, in such an
uncalled-for manner, between my dear husband and myself. To quote my friend Monsieur Sganarelle —‘Ce sont petites
choses qui sont de temps en temps necessaires dans l’amitié; et cinq ou six coups d’épée entre gens qui s’aiment ne
font que ragaillardir l’affection.’ You observe the colouring is not quite what it should be?”

“In this light the beard is of rather a peculiar tint,” said I.

“Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, and gave him such a distinguished air, quite different
from the common herd. Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come near this flambeau!” And going near the
light, she took off a bracelet of hair, with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly. I did not know
what to say. “His precious lovely beard!” said she. “And the pearls go so well with the delicate blue!”

Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fell upon him before venturing to speak, now said, “It
is strange Monsieur Ogre is not yet arrived!”

“Not at all strange,” said she, tartly. “He was always very stupid, and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he
comes worse off; and it is very well he does, for he is a credulous and cowardly fellow. Not at all strange! If you
will”— turning to her husband, so that I hardly heard her words, until I caught —“Then everybody would have their
rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not, monsieur?” addressing me.

“If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of the reform bill, or the millennium — but I am in
ignorance.”

And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown open wide, and every one started to their feet to greet a
little old lady, leaning on a thin black wand — and —

“Madame la Féemarraine,” was announced by a chorus of sweet shrill voices.

And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollow oak-tree, with the slanting glory of the dawning day
shining full in my face, and thousands of little birds and delicate insects piping and warbling out their welcome to
the ruddy splendour.

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